Arrrr matey. Portsmoutheus were a bit o' a let down 'coz Squiddly Ridley did such a good job with Aye-aye Lien all them years back. In this one, everyone acted stupider than Bart's last financial backer. It were as if there 'ad to be a big set piece every 'alf hour, so all the charickters did dumb things to make sure the next monster jumped out on cue. 2 hooks out o' 5.

Aye Bart. In fact, there be a story attached to that cinema. It be called...

The Fall of the House of Ushers

Arrrr...

It were a Saturday mornin' an we'd dropped anchor in Portsmouth Harbour. All the men were rushin' off to blow their money in the Benbow an' Madame Fifi's, an' I gave me cabin boy a ha'pence to take himself off to the pictures fer the afternoon.

"No Cap'n," he said. "I ain't goin' there! No-one ever goes there on an afternoon! Ye'd have to be mad to go into that picture house!"

"Why's that then lad?" I asked. "Is Portsmoutheus still showin'?"

"No Cap'n, it be said that more people go into the afternoon matinee than ever comes out. Charley 'Iggins, the cabin boy on the Slack Alice, sez that 'is ship lost five men to an afternoon showin' of 'Squarehead Spongebrain'. That cinema be 'aunted or summit."

I looked at me watch. I thought I'd be letting the crowd die down a bit before I goes over to Madame Fifi's meself, so I'd got a couple o' hours t' kill. I decided to go an' 'ave a look at this cinema.

*

"One!" I sed, bangin' me money down on the counter. A pasty, isipid lookin' bastid handed me a ticket, an' ins I went. In the foyer, a chap in a long coat an' a peaked cap showed me up the stairs. At the top o' the stairs a young usher wench showed me into the darkened theatre.

Once inside, she shone her lamp around. I could see there were no one but me in the theatre; I went to sit down, but the usher said "No, Cap'n. Come and sit over here," an' she shone her light towards a seat in the middle o' a row. "You'll be much more comfortable there."

I'll admit that it looked like a nice seat, but I's heard o' this sort o' thing before. There were some blaggard of a barber in Fleet Street 'oo were up to summit like this. Summit to do wi' pies... I ran back to the foyer, kicked down the door to the manager's office an' found him cowerin' under 'is desk.

"Gaah!" I shouted. "Try an' make ME into a pie will ye!" I dragged him upright, an drew mw cutlass.

"No, wait! I'm not trying to make anyone into a pie!"

"Then why did that usher try an' make me sit in that one particular seat?"

"It's the best seat in the house," said the manager. "We wanted you to be comfortable."

"What did ye do wi' those five crewmen 'oo vanished?"

"Nothing, Captain! They just ran off! I heard them say that nothing could make them go back to that lousy ship!"

"No Captain. It's because that new multiplex shows all the best films. The big distributors don't want their films shown in a little cinema like ours. We only get to show the films that no-one else wants." He looked at the floor in embarrassment. "It's got so bad that we're showing 'Portsmoutheus' next week."

Now, this 'ere manager feller seemed like a clever enough bloke, so why was 'ee acting so stupid? It were obvious 'ow to solve 'is problem. I spelled it out to 'im and we shook 'ands on a 60% - 40% share o' the profits. Then I rounded me men up and we trained the ship's guns on the multiplex. A couple o' broadsides later, and the job were done. Funny 'ow so few people 'ave a grasp o' business matters.

Arr I popped into thee Benbow t’other night for a grog and I couldn’t elp noticin it were very quiet for a Friday. I went over to thee landlord to ask I’m what was up an I thought, “he be lookin mighty pale, what’s up?’ Wiv trembling hand thee Landlord directed me gaze toward thee table over by thee fire an I nearly choked on me grog…seated round thee table were none other than Thee Black Spot, Cap’n Cronan an Cap,n Ahab!

Burnish me Brass Monkeys, I thought they’d all gone into retirement, what ill wind has blown them into our port, twill bring evil upon us or I’m a monkey’s uncle. The Landlord went an even whiter shade of pale as the terrifying voice of The Black Spot rang out demanding more grog.

“Look at his bar tab” said the terrified landlord and he pointed to a whole back wall of the pub covered in grog orders.

With an audible sigh of relief the Landlord handed over the pack of Snap cards and with that the three orrible Pirates began to play.

All you could hear in the hushed Benbow was the Slurping of Grog and Manic Shouts of “Two Pink Elephants, SNAP! Colin the Croc, SNAP, Charlie the Chimp, SNAP…”

This went on for some time until as luck would have it Ahab got two cards with Willy the White Whale and he quite literally SNAPPED: “Aarrrrgh thee White Whale, by heavens I WILL have my revenge” and with that Ahab smashed four windows and a table. Then he simmered down and the game continued.

“Foxy thee Fox, SNAP, Jimmy the Gerbil, SNAP… Sammy the Shark! The Black Spot threw the table clean through the front door “Aaaargh it was a shark wot took my leg thee basted, I HATE sharks! SMASH another window went for a Burton, Bash the Landlord’s prized fish tank exploded in pieces (and I quickly gathered up thee fishes for me stoo)! The Black Spot’s rage simmered down and the game continued:

Harry the Horse, SNAP, Porky the Pig, SNAP, Alan thee Albatross…ALBATROSS! Screamed Cronan, ALBATROSS…it was an Albatross what took out me eye…I hate Albatrosses! With that Cronan went berserk and set fire to the bar with his pipe and a bottle of Old Nick.

After the Fire brigade had put out the blaze and Me an thee Landlord were standing outside thee smouldering ruin of his pub I tried to think of something encouraging to say, I thought hard and finally all I could think of saying was: “Look on thee bright side...they’ll ave ta go somewhere else tomorrow night.”

The smoke wafted gently in the breeze across the poop deck and all seemed right in the world.

We sailed out of Portsmouth on a fine summer day in 1776. The omens for our voyage were good, the bilge rats were looking healthy and we'd finally managed to cure the cooks leprosy.

With a fresh South Westerly breeze filling the sails, The Boisterous Beagle ploughed gently through the waves towards her destination...the unknown.

As the sun set on the fourteenth day of our voyage the lookout spied land, an island off the Port bow. Lush with vegetation and equipped with a natural deep harbour it would have been a folly not to have anchored and gone ashore to investigate.

As the landing party waded ashore we became aware of the deep silence of the place. Apart from the waves lapping on the sandy shore, there was hardly a sound, no birds, no insects, nothing. What could be the explanation for this eery silence? I hear the reader ask.

We moved stealthily through the hinterland noting the strange texture of the sand, the mud, the mangrove swamps and the soil. I've sailed the seven seas from Portsmouth to Van Diemen's Land and I'd never seen anything like this. Everything was a creamy white, sort of gooey and sticky to the touch.

It was then that we noticed the animals and birds. Their skeletal remains we're all that remained of the indigenous population. They had all become stuck fast in the white goo and had perished, each and every last one of them.

As we squelched around, marvelling at the strange scene which was unfolding, We suddenly noticed the cave. The black rock contrasted dramatically with the white goo which surrounded the cave and, we noticed, seemed to have oozed out from within the cave's depths. Suddenly a sound from within the cave brought us up short. It was the unmistakeable groan of a man!

With cutlasses and pistols drawn we approached the entrance to the cave and peered into the gloomy interior. There, in the darkness, was an apparition! Was it a man or was it a ghost? It was a terrifying sight like something from 'The Hobbit' and wearing nothing but a dirty pair of underpants. He was so pale he glowed in the dark and clearly his eyesight was so poor from living in the cave he hadn't noticed us arrive. Suddenly the wretch held up a grubby and sticky publication which appeared to be illustrated with unchristian images and...no I cannot continue with the tale at this point.

Suffice to say we took the wretch, one Knuckles O'shuffle, back to the ship in irons and, confiscating all his degraded publications, we endeavoured to make a good Christian of the fellow.

Sadly four months later, Knuckles managed to escape with disastrous consequences. The First Mate had disobeyed my explicit orders to destroy O'Shuffles's collection of filth and had concealed the lot in his cabin. O'Shuffles discovered the cache and with half an hour the ship sank, gurgling, in a sticky off-white mess.

Shamefully, rather than go down with my ship, I survived to tell the tale by tying together some of O'Shuffles magazines...well they didn't really need tying...and floating to the safety of a near by island inhabited by enormous breasted women. May the Lord protect me.

The smoke wafted gently in the breeze across the poop deck and all seemed right in the world.